It was their first house. She made him lift her over the threshold in full view of her parents and the movers. He’d done the same thing in their apartment six years earlier, just a week after their wedding, tired and tanned from their honeymoon in Aruba, both of them laughing as he’d hoisted her into his arms and swung her through the narrow doorway.
Six years later he felt embarrassed and a little annoyed. Things were different between them. Christine was noticeably heavier, for starters, carrying twenty extra pounds of baby weight, which no one was supposed to mention even though their younger son was six months old. “You look so good!” all her friends said, as if there was some unwritten female rule to lie about physical appearance.
She’d giggled as he hoisted her into his arms and he’d forced a smile. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen one of the movers, a young man with heavily tattooed arms, staring at him with a hardened expression while smoking a cigarette. Andrew had flushed and looked away, but not before seeing the man toss the cigarette onto the lawn. His lawn.
He hadn’t wanted to buy a house. They’d spent six years in a duplex in the East End and he’d been happy there, able to walk to the university or stop for milk on his way home, just a few blocks to meet friends for a drink in the evening. It met all his needs, until the convenience store got robbed in broad daylight, and a neighbor was mugged, and the lawn chairs disappeared. Christine started saying that she didn’t feel safe. She talked about moving out of the city and said it was better for kids. When she got pregnant with their second son, Andrew knew his days in the city were numbered.
Fox Chapel was too expensive for them, but Christine refused to look farther out, arguing that it had good schools and they’d be close to her parents. Not an incentive for Andrew, but after six years of marriage he’d learned when to shut up.
In their price bracket, they were stuck looking at fixeruppers, which meant 1960s-era ranches or early-’70s faux colonials, with avocado kitchens and baths, and basement rec rooms. The house they settled on — a four-bedroom with potential — had a red Naugahyde bar in the basement. Andrew pictured himself standing behind it and offering his friends martinis. It was so retro it was almost hip. Almost. He felt panicky.
Their realtor, an older brittle blonde with orangish skin named Tippy Cooperman, looked right at home sidling up to the bar. “You’ll have lots of fun down here!” she brayed, smacking the black Formica counter.
She turned every criticism of the house into something positive. So when Andrew noticed that it needed new windows, Tippy said, “Look at all that natural light!” As for the overgrown, bushy two-acre lot, she said, “Such an excellent deal for all this land!” She pushed them to make an offer, saying it was a great investment.
The only investment Andrew could focus on was the time it would take to get the house and yard into shape. Christine looked at the larger homes surrounding them and agreed with Tippy. Apparently, her father agreed too, because the next day, after they’d been out to see it with their daughter, his in-laws offered to give them the down payment and cover the closing costs.
“It’s a good starter home,” Donald Wallace declared after he’d walked through it. He was a large, ruddy-cheeked businessman with a full head of silvery white hair, who’d amassed a fortune by tripling the size of his grandfather’s plumbing supply company. Semiretired, he spent his days staring at a flat screen in his enormous home or playing endless rounds of golf at the country club. He was the sort of man who distrusted academia and thought even less of scientists. When Andrew couldn’t easily sum up his research in physics, it was immediately suspect.
Donald’s small, plump wife, Joyce, bustled about on moving day, watching over the grandkids and helping Christine direct the placement of furniture. Smiling, she told Andrew that “of course” she and Donald would ensure they got invited to join the country club.
That night, their first in the new house, they lay in bed in their master bedroom suite, which was painted a bilious shade of blue. Christine whispered, “Can you believe it? We’re homeowners!” She sounded elated. He felt only panic: his life was over; he was thirty-two years old.
Startled awake at three by Sam’s high-pitched crying, Andrew shot up in bed and didn’t recognize the room. Christine didn’t stir, a lump under the sheets, her dark hair falling in lank, sweaty strands across the pillow.
He let her sleep, stumbling from their room and padding along the dark, unfamiliar hallway to the boys’ bedroom. Three-year-old Henry slept in his new bed, looking smaller than he had in the crib that was now Sam’s, oblivious to his younger brother’s wailing. A nightlight in the shape of a cartoon dinosaur cast a soft yellow glow.
Sam stopped crying for a few seconds when he saw his father looming above him and then started up again. It reminded Andrew of an air raid siren. “Hush now, little guy,” he whispered, scooping him up and heading into the kitchen.
Christine pumped so that Andrew wouldn’t “miss out” on feedings. He took one of the bottles from the fridge and warmed it, letting his son gnaw rodent-like on one of his fingers while they waited.
Sam nursed voraciously, cupping the bottle with small hands and sucking down the milk like the final beer at last call.
The night was stifling. Andrew carried Sam and the bottle out onto the back deck, quietly sliding open the screen door. The weathered wood felt cool under his feet. The air throbbed with locusts and crickets. The leafy branches of looming oak and maple trees formed a canopy over their heads, and beyond them, luminous and large, the stars. Movement caught his eye and he turned to see a woman standing on the back deck of the house closest to theirs, which wasn’t close, not by city standards. She was naked, her skin glowing white in the moonlight. Her long, straight hair looked like liquid silver. As he watched she raised her hands above her head, pressing them together and arching her long, lean body back. Yoga at three in the morning.
He stood in the shadows and watched, wondering if she knew he was there. A few minutes of stretching and a man suddenly appeared behind her. It was too far away to hear anything, but Andrew clearly saw the guy wrap his hand in that long silver hair and pull. She moved with her hair, a single cry of pain loud enough to echo through the trees. It could have been a cat or a bird; no one would investigate. Sam paused in his guzzling, the bottle popping free of his milky lips, and stirred in his father’s arms.
Andrew stood still, afraid to move, unable to turn away. The couple tussled silently for a minute, the man letting go of her hair, but only to move his hand to her upper arm. He dragged her into their house. Andrew stood there a moment longer on shaky legs, his breathing rough and fast in his ears. The clatter of the bottle falling onto the deck startled him— Sam had fallen asleep in his arms.
On the following Friday, they invited friends from the city out to visit their new house. Christine’s idea. They would grill, and everyone could sit on the back deck and admire the view.
“Hey, Soccer Dad,” Jason teased, accepting the beer that Andrew pulled from the fridge. “When are you getting the minivan and the golden retriever?”
“Ha fucking ha.” Andrew pulled the marinating steaks from the fridge and carried them past the group huddled in the living room cooing at the baby, and stepped out onto the deck. Hot air fell like a blanket on his face and he heard Jason exclaim behind him. It was dusk and the dark trunks of oak trees shimmered slightly in a golden sunset.
“So you like it out here?” Jason said, pulling on his beer and watching Andrew transfer steaks to the massive gas grill that had been his in-laws’ house-warming gift.